Chapter 8 Kara
KARA
Sand lashes the rocks outside in furious waves.
It’s a hiss, like boiling water—constant and endless.
Wind pours through every crack in the spires, a shrill whistle that claws down my spine.
My blanket does nothing; grit finds every gap, every seam, stinging my eyes, working into the bandage on my arm until the burn feels raw again.
I press my back tighter to the stone. It feels safer if I make myself smaller. Tucked in the corner, knees drawn up, I can almost believe the rock will swallow me whole and hide me.
Almost.
Because I hear it again. A scrape. Long. Slow. Deliberate.
My head jerks toward the sound. The scarred warrior fills the gap, lochaber angled across his back, his broad frame holding back the storm as if the canyon itself forged him. His eyes are steady, black and fathomless, scanning the grit-choked dark beyond.
He’s heard it too.
The younger Zmaj stiffens, wings twitching open before he forces them shut again. His tail slaps against the wall, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“They’re here,” he mutters.
Joran snaps his head up, face pale under the grime.
“What? What do you mean, they?” His voice cracks like brittle wood.
“Shut it,” Harlan hisses, clutching his arms tighter around his knees. His lips move in prayer even as his wide eyes stay locked on the shifting shadows outside.
I squeeze the handle of my knife, my burned arm throbbing, but I don’t loosen my grip. The scrape comes again, closer this time. My stomach knots so hard it hurts.
The scarred warrior doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But I see the shift—his shoulders roll back, claws flex once against the lochaber’s haft, a coiled patience like a predator waiting for its moment.
The storm masks everything. Sight. Smell. Sound. All I have are fragments—hulking shadows crawling through the grit, a guttural hiss swallowed by the gale, the flash of something pale and curved—horns? tusks?—before the storm swallows it whole.
My breath rasps loud in my throat. Too loud. I clamp my jaw shut, chest aching from the effort.
Another scrape. This one rattles through the stone at my back. The shelter itself seems to breathe with it, pulsing in time with something out there.
Joran curses under his breath, a choked, broken sound.
“We’re trapped. Gods, we’re trapped—”
Harlan shoves an elbow into his ribs, harder than I’d expect from the quiet one.
“Shut up,” he snaps, voice rough with fear. His prayers fall away, replaced by silence more desperate than words.
The younger Zmaj leans forward, teeth bared, wings twitching hard enough that the cramped space shudders with every movement. He looks ready to throw himself straight into the storm, to meet whatever comes head-on.
But the scarred warrior shifts, just a fraction—enough to catch him in that obsidian stare. One look is all it takes. The younger Zmaj snarls low, but he doesn’t move. He stays put, coiled tight, chest heaving.
The message is clear even without words: hold.
My throat goes dry. My body screams to curl smaller, to vanish into the stone. But the knife digs into my palm, grounding me. If he can stand there, if he can stare into the storm unflinching, then so can I.
The scrape comes again. Louder. Closer. A guttural hiss vibrates through the stone, so low my ribs rattle with it.
My pulse hammers. My burned arm throbs with each beat, but I don’t let go.
The scarred warrior lifts the lochaber from his back, the motion slow, precise, deliberate. The blade glints dull in the filtered light, steady as the hand that holds it. His gaze flicks once—just once—to me.
It holds. And in that silent beat, I understand.
This is no passing storm. No illusion. Something hunts us, using the storm for cover. And it’s almost here.
Not it. Not one. More than one. Heavy bodies moving through the grit, claws dragging furrows across the stone. Shapes slipping in and out of the swirling sand—low and hulking, horns curving pale in the flashes of dim light.
Joran makes a choked sound, dragging his knees up to his chest.
“There’s more,” he mutters, rocking once, twice, voice cracking high. “Gods, there’s more of them.”
“Shut it,” Harlan growls again, though his own knuckles are white where they clutch his blanket tight. His lips twitch like he wants to fall back into prayer, but the words won’t come.
The younger Zmaj snarls, low and sharp, his wings twitching hard enough that the membranes snap in the confined space.
“Let me out,” he hisses. “I’ll cut them down before they reach us.”
He shifts toward the gap, tail lashing, but before he can move farther, the scarred warrior’s arm shoots out, one clawed hand bracing against his chest. Not shoving. Just there. Solid as stone.
The younger Zmaj freezes, teeth bared. For a heartbeat I think he’ll fight it, but then his gaze meets the scarred warrior’s, and something in it—unspoken, immovable—snaps him still.
The growl dies in his throat. He stays crouched, chest heaving, fury twitching through every muscle, but he doesn’t move forward again.
The scarred warrior lowers his hand without a word. His lochaber stays raised, steady in his grip, the blade angled toward the shifting dark. His eyes narrow—not at the storm, but at whatever waits inside it.
A scrape rakes down the side of the spire. The stone shudders under my back. I flinch before I can stop myself, teeth clenched tight to choke down a sound.
The creatures circle. I can’t see them fully, but I feel them.
Every hiss, every scrape of horn against rock, every rumble that vibrates through the stone—it all presses closer, suffocating.
The storm should drown them out, but somehow it doesn’t.
It carries them instead, amplifies them, until the air inside the cramped shelter buzzes with their presence.
Joran squeezes his eyes shut. His lips move fast—too fast—a jumble of curses and broken pleas. Harlan elbows him again, harder this time.
“You’ll draw them in,” he hisses.
But I know better. They’re already here.
I shift the knife in my hand, my burned arm throbbing with the movement. Sand stings my face where it pours in through the cracks, filling the air with grit until every breath scrapes my lungs raw. My heartbeat is louder than the storm. Louder than everything.
“They’re coming in,” I whisper.
The younger Zmaj snaps his head toward me, eyes flashing bright. He doesn’t deny it. He knows.
Another motion, closer still. Shadows moving through the swirling wall of sand and dirt. A guttural hiss follows—deep and guttural—vibrating through my bones. The stink of venom rises, sharp and acrid, burning my throat.
I clutch my knife tighter, knuckles white. My chest heaves. My body wants to curl tighter, smaller, vanish into the shadows—but I force myself to lean forward instead. If the scarred warrior holds the line, then I will too.
The motion comes again and sand bursts through the cracks, stinging my face.
Joran lets out a strangled cry. “It’s coming through—”
The scarred warrior doesn’t even glance back. His shoulders shift, muscles coiling tight. He braces his stance, lochaber raised. Ready. Waiting.
His eyes flick to me. Just for a breath. And in them is an unspoken order. Steady. Hold.
I nod, my throat too tight to speak.
The next shove rattles the shelter so hard I swear the stone spires will split. Sand pours in, choking, blinding. All I can see is horns jutting through the gap.
The hiss that follows is louder than the storm.
And then claws scrape across stone inside the crack.
They’re not just testing anymore.
They’re coming in.
The scrape stops.
For a breath. Two. Three.
The storm howls outside, sand battering the stone, pouring through the cracks in steady streams. But the claws…the hisses…they vanish. Joran lets out a shuddering laugh, high and thin.
“Gone,” he gasps, swiping grit from his face. “They’ve gone. Storm drove them off.”
His voice cracks, wild with desperate hope.
“Fool,” the younger Zmaj snaps, wings twitching hard against the cramped space. “Storm does not drive predators away. It hides them.”
“Shut up, both of you,” Harlan mutters, his lips moving again, half prayer, half plea.
I lean forward, knife clutched tight, my body trembling from the effort of holding still. My chest heaves with every breath. The silence isn’t relief. It’s worse—heavy, watching, waiting.
The scarred warrior doesn’t shift, doesn’t ease. His stance is carved from stone, lochaber angled toward the gap, eyes narrowed. He knows that nothing has left.
I can’t look away from the opening. Each passing moment feels like a countdown.
My burned arm throbs under the bandage, fire crawling deep through my veins. I ease and tighten my grip on the knife, but don’t let it go. If this is the moment—if they come through now—I will not shrink.
The silence stretches until my ears ring. Joran’s wild laugh fades into a nervous mutter.
“They’re gone. They have to be gone. If they wanted us, it they—”
The spires rattle, hard.
All of us flinch.
Horns wedge deeper into the crack. A guttural hiss rumbles through the shelter, low and heavy, vibrating the ground beneath us.
Joran chokes on his words.
Harlan presses a shaking hand over his mouth, eyes wide and white.
The younger Zmaj snarls, wings snapping wide before the tight space crushes them closed again. His claws rake sparks against the stone.
The scarred warrior doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Only his grip tightens on the lochaber, muscles coiled like a drawn bow.
And then—silence again.
The storm shrieks. Sand pours in. But the scrape is gone. The hiss is gone. The stone spires are cracked, but holding.
The lull presses down heavier than the storm itself.
My pulse hammers so hard my vision sways. I can’t take it—the waiting, the silence that feels like a hand closing around my throat. My lips part, a whisper slipping out before I can stop it.
“They’re not gone.”
The scarred warrior’s eyes flick to mine. Dark. Certain.
And something explodes into our shelter.